The New Jumper
by wheniwrite
Summary: Just a short one-shot which I had in my mind for a while. Were you wondering why John Watson wears jumpers all the time? No? Well, Sherlock was. And he doesn't like it. So the question is: What to do?


**The New Jumper**

Sherlock Holmes was a calm man. Maybe not always patient, but he could control his emotions, if it was needed, and if it helped him to get rid of the nagging questions from Mrs. Hudson. The poor woman didn't know that he had already thought of a million times before, effective methods of getting rid of her forever.

Fortunately, his only friend took the greater focus of those gloomy thoughts. He often sat in front of the fireplace with a book in his hands, without shoes or socks on, and every time in one of his stupid sweaters, which he was surrounded with. Sherlock had already captivated the idea that the doctor didn't manufacture the jumpers himself, but why bother such a brilliant mind with that kind of trifle?

It would be nice to see John at least once in normal clothes, but in the case of the retired soldier, it was almost impossible. And Sherlock had tried before, very fiercely. However, Dr. Watson had always pulled a new woollen sweater from somewhere, where the detective wouldn't think to look. Sometimes he felt like he was in one of those idiotic funfairs, where the magician pulled white rabbits out of a hat. With the hat always in the middle of a table, that was discreetly covered with a grubby tablecloth. God, even the children could tell the trick, when they so stupidly giggled after the magician pulled out nickels from behind their ear. That idea creped Sherlock out and made him somewhat sick, given that no one could guarantee that the magical nickel hadn't been put in the child's ear by the kid itself two days before the show.

He lay on the couch staring at the ceiling, without a case, and without any motivation. Just watching and wondering why the ceiling didn't have patterns on it that might have entertained him for a moment. Suddenly he heard muffled voices from downstairs and then Mrs. Hudson's reserved laughter. John was home, thought the detective and frowned at the bare ceiling which all of a sudden had started to vex him. He straightened up, and like a cat waiting for a mouse to sticks its nose out of its hole, with stooped shoulders and narrowed eyes watched the door. He didn't have to wait long, after a while John's typical shuffling gait was heard which testified about its owner more than he would ever want. By the sound of the transfer of weight on the injured leg, Sherlock was able to determine that Dr. John Watson went on walks to get the injured leg used to the demanding of walking again. Being able to run was needless to be mentioned for his job.

There were only seventeen stairs. He knew this because he noticed things like that around him, completely unnecessary for others, their slightness absolutely essential for him. He had a head full of facts that swirled in a disorganized bustle, which ceased only when he concentrated on a case or had at least one nicotine patch. John was on the fifteenth step and the bustle was accelerating. In such moments, the younger Holmes would kill for a cigarette. Hypnotizing the door with a look and hunching forward as if an infirm old man. For heaven's sake, who takes that long to come up seventeen stairs? The door opened and a smiling John stepped in with two bags in his hands. Sherlock didn't pay attention to them, and later realized that he actually hadn't registered at all what had been in them.

John Watson was a strange man; at least everybody said that to him when they were familiarized with the fact that he shared a living space with Sherlock Holmes. He didn't complain. Sherlock's mind fascinated him and he was able to listen to complicated analyzes, hypotheses and theories with pure enthusiasm. Moreover, solving cases with Holmes contributed to his health improvement. Sure, the pointless routes and shortcuts that the detective often chose, and God knows why favoured, had been very physically exhausting. But John was adamant that Sherlock was worth it. It was impossible for him not to build some kind of affection for the detective. Sometimes he felt like a babysitter, but rather more often like an idiot. Sheer unadulterated asshole.

Every time the younger Holmes solved a complex case, managed to quarrel with his brother, berate Lestrade and call the whole Scotland Yard a clutch of idiots, that didn't know how to properly put on their helmets, and then collapsed on the couch at home with a disgusted sigh, John had the urge to hug the detective. Fortunately, he realized his position and never took such a risky action. And there had been opportunities. However, the great detective was pretty annoying, directly grating on the nerves annoying. Such situations occurred when he run out of nicotine patches, and the detective tried to entertain himself by dissecting piece by piece John's personal life.

He had been able to develop an incredible theory about why the doctor used chamomile shampoo instead of apple. Green apple? Why green? And why apple? He would never let John tell that it was simply because it smelled nice. Never. But the shampoo was not nearly as scary and exhausting, as Sherlock lectures on John's jumpers. He could talk for hours and hours. Ripped every sweater of his the last thread, but still went back to the beginning. Why? Why the hell did John keep wearing them? John's answers were met with a snort and another superficial hour of theory.

When John had left today for his daily walk, he hadn't had anything specific in mind. He definitely hadn't expected to go shopping. But it had happened, so he returned home with a new scarf for Sherlock that he was going to give him at Christmas and a new tea set for Mrs. Hudson. The previous one unfortunately hadn't survived the latest wave of attacks from the detective's mad experiments. And he had bought one more thing to ease the doctor's wallet. John Watson had triumphantly returned home in a new jumper.

Sherlock disbelieving eyes stared ahead. He couldn't be serious, could he? "New jumper," he commented tersely and guaranteed that the friendly expression on Watson's face was erased for today.

"Yes," John replied in the same tone and went to his room. He would think twice, if he ever gave Sherlock that scarf. The sweater was nice, actually more than that. It was faultless. Perfectly fitting, warm, the pattern and colour was neutral and it was also very comfortable. Let the big baby say what he wanted. John had a new jumper and he liked it.

Meanwhile, the doctor assured himself that having another jumper was perfectly fine, Sherlock again took a bored position on the couch, and for a change scowled at the small spot that appeared after two seconds of searching in the right corner two inches from the curtain rods. As he watched the brownish spot, on average no more than five millimetres, in his head began to slowly raise an evil plan. He was quite sure that the consequences would be very unpleasant, but he was still determined to do the right thing.

"I can't believe you did that!" cried John, and the blood rushed into his face. "I don't know what you thought at all. That is not normal," he shouted at Sherlock, who watched him with interest. He had always admired the courage which hid in his little companion, but he had not yet had the opportunity to see him in a full rage. Now he took in the doctor's full wrath.

"You can't do that. You can't just…you can't take someone else's stuff without permission and then, and then destroy it so blatantly," Watson face now resembled a fairground red balloon. "What were you doing? Are you crazy? Are you out of your damn patches again? Hell, Sherlock," John had expected at least some sort of response, but the detective stared at him with a blank stare.

"I don't understand why this is such a trivial matter," Sherlock murmured after a moment. He expected a reaction, but he was offended that John had poured all that rage on him. It was also his fault!

Dr. Watson just gasped with disbelief. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't think of anything, so he just threw up his hands up helplessly and made an inarticulate sound. "Argh! You're such a... to hell with you, Sherlock," and slammed the door behind him. The famous detective looked after him with a hurt expression.

He wasn't sure what was wrong with him lately, or at least he wouldn't admit it. But when he turned and looked at the smouldering remains of John's previously new jumper, he realized that he had simply fallen in love.

* * *

**AN: Well, that's it. Hope you like it :)**


End file.
